The Learning Hours

Wordlessly, my palms cover her breasts, over the pale lace, languidly tracing the delicate scraps her hands were covering, the pads of my trembling fingers running up the straps of her bra.

Yeah, that’s right—I’m goddamn trembling.

Dragging both straps down, I incline, and when I kiss the swell of her plump flesh, goose bumps form on her skin. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and I move it aside to kiss her neck. Kiss her throat, dragging my lips across her bare shoulder, two bra straps limping lifelessly down her triceps.

Until they fall down her arms.

I tenderly palm her boob, thumbs slowly brushing back and forth across her stiff nipples. Around and around her areola. Her head goes back, a strangled moan escaping her throat, filling the void in the car.

Laurel rotates her hips, grinding down on my dick while I cup her boobs. I can feel the slit inside her black leggings, the head of my dick seeking the heat I know must be primed as fuck. Slick.

“You’re going to make me come—God, you found my clit,” she says as she pants, her words drawn out like a whine. “I’m so close.”

Come. Clit. Close. Those three words, a heady aphrodisiac.

“Fuck, so am I.”

“I want you so bad.” I don’t know if she says it or if I do.

When I suck her tits into my mouth, one stiff nipple at a time, she grabs a fistful of my hair. Tugs. Bears down on my lap, dry humping the shit out of me.

My hands grab her ass cheeks, instinctively dragging her down harder. It feels so fucking good it’s almost agonizing. My brows furrow as if in pain as my arms wrap around her, holding her tight.

Our mouths fuse, one breath.

My balls tighten; her boobs feel like heaven in my mouth and against my bare chest and I want to fuck her, fuck the fucking shit right out of her, so bad my mouth waters at the thought.

Laurel sucks my earlobe when I tip my head back against the headrest, her labored breath fueling me on, hips thrusting upward, wanting to be inside her.

“Oh! Yes, yes, keep doing that…” comes her frantic whisper.

Another set of headlights eases up the rise, but we’re consumed with each other, one thing on our minds—coming.

“Mmm,” she groans into my mouth, riding my lap, mimicking sex I’ve only seen in Tumblr porn. Grabbing my hands and planting them back on her tits. “Mmm, yes.” Laurel hisses through her teeth. “Don’t stop touching me or I’ll die.”

It’s more than I can take.

The slow build inside my balls grows.

“Shit,” I growl. “Shit, shit.” I’m going to come in my shorts, something I’ve never done in my entire fucking life, because I’ve never had a hot girl grind on me, never even been alone in the same room with a hot girl before Laurel.

Ever.

“Are you coming?” she whimpers.

“Are you?”

“Yes, yes, don’t you dare stop.”

I couldn’t even if I wanted to, not for a million fuckin’ bucks, despite the imminent chafing happening inside my boxer briefs.

When we come, we shudder together, her arms sliding around my neck, warm lips finding the pulse in my throat. She nuzzles my shoulder, mouth resting below my ear.

“I like you.” Her fingers reach up, toying with a curl at the back of my head. “A lot.”

“Je vous aussi,” I murmur into her hair, stroking it with my palm, hand gliding down the smooth skin of her back. I like you, too.

And it scares the shit out of me.

Rhett

“Wake up, fuck stick. Coach called an emergency meeting.”

Jesus Christ, does it ever end with this guy?

I crack an eyelid, rolling toward the voice of my roommate, feeling for my phone, wanting to check the time. “How did you get in here? I thought I locked the door.”

“It was easy.” He yanks back my covers. “Get up. We have to hustle.”

“Why?” My bare feet hit the floor. Legs stand.

“I don’t know, but we have to be at the field house in fifteen minutes. Get your shit on and let’s go. Johnson’s driving.”

A pair of pants and hoodie get tossed on the bed, the sweatshirt nearly hitting my face.

He’s exiting the room when I call him back.

“Hey.”

He turns, hand grabbing the doorframe. “Yeah?”

“Who did it?”

“Did what?”

“Don’t play dumb—who fucking vandalized my car.”

My roommate shuffles on the hardwood floor, eyes trained on the beige wall behind me. “I don’t know.”

“Would you cut the crap?” I pull the black sweatshirt down over my head. Yank on the athletic shorts. “Who fucking was it?”

“I’m telling you, man, I don’t know!”

“You’ve got the balls to stand there and lie to my face? Nice.”

I gather up my bag, stuffing in an extra pair of shorts.

“This is just a meeting—you won’t have to work out,” he’s quick to point out.

I ignore him, throwing a jock strap, tank, and socks in my duffle.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t take the NCAA championship twice by pissing away my days, did I, Gunderson?” I glance at him hovering in the doorway. “Get the fuck out if you’re not going to give me any information.”

He hesitates. “It was some sorority girls.”

I straighten. “What?”

Gunderson shrugs his scrawny shoulders. “It was some sorority girls. Someone thought if would be funny if you came outside and your Jeep was wrapped in, uh, plastic wrap.”

“Who’s banging sorority girls?”

“I don’t know, everybody?”

I toss a new pair of tennis shoes in with my clothes. “That really narrows it down, doesn’t it?”

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

I laugh cynically. “Yeah right.”

“Look, man, I’ll help you get your Jeep home, okay? We’ll do it after the meeting.”

“Don’t fucking bother.”

“I come to the stadium this morning and what the hell do you think I see in the parking lot? Any of you ladies know the answer I’m looking for?”

Crickets.

“No one has anything to say this morning?”

We all stare dumbly at Coach, who looks like he’s about to pop the straining blood vessel in the center of his forehead. He is fucking pissed.

“I saw Rhett Rabideaux’s Jeep wrapped in fucking plastic. Who here thinks that shit was funny? Who here thinks it was safe? Show of hands.”

His question is met with stillness, silence, so he powers on.

“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” He paces to the side of the room normally reserved for reviewing tapes, slamming a clipboard onto the table he uses for transcripts.

Coach rakes a weathered hand through his graying hair, hands behind his head, staring at the wall. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here. I have to hold someone accountable. If no one speaks up, you’re all suspended until we figure it out.”

Still, no one utters a word.

Until, “Coach, I don’t think it’s fair to suspend everyone because of a stupid prank.”

Coach doesn’t even turn around. “Shut the fuck up, Tennyson. Unless you can supply me with a name, consider yourself on probation.”

Someone coughs.

“Come on Coach,” Brandon Tennyson argues. “I’m sure whoever did this”—he glances around the room, eyes narrowed into dangerous slits—“whoever did this was just trying to be funny.”

“I assure you, ladies, the staff didn’t get the joke.” Coach turns toward Iowa’s coaching team, gesturing toward the support staff. “We’ve been here for hours, discussing our options. The way we see it, there aren’t many alternatives. We cannot have a team full of little pricks who think hazing a new teammate is tolerated. You are adults. It’s time to take your punishment like grown men.”

One of the freshman redshirts raises his hand. “But Coach, won’t we have to forfeit the season if you suspend us?”

“BINGO!”

Throughout the room, a ripple of countless murmurs, profanity. Complaining from a few braver souls.